How To Ace Your Comeback: Preview Chapters
Killer Ace Black was almost a big pro wrestling star in the late 80s, but then he wasn’t.
Killer Ace Black was almost a big pro wrestling star in the late 80s, but then he wasn’t.
Now, after decades of being blackballed from the squared circle, he’s back for one last shot at glory. The only problem? Somebody’s threatened to murder him, and nobody’s taking it seriously.
Can Ace survive via his signature blend of guile, charisma, and sheer refusal to let anybody catch a quick one on him? Will he evade the deadly masked Ruinator long enough to make his comeback? Does he still have it?
You can get the first part of the story here for free. To see Ace in his full glory, be sure to pre-order your copy of How to Ace Your Comeback from Mouse House Books and The Wrestling Estate’s own David Gibb.
Chapter 1 of How To Ace Your Comeback
You know what success smells like? It’s new boots, hundred-dollar bills, and coke that’s never been stored in anybody’s mouth or asshole. It’s good whiskey in your mustache and good silk on your balls. It’s a freshly dry-cleaned suit, free cologne from a fancy club, and blacklight-safe hotel sheets.
But the smell of shitting the bed, that’s some bad stuff. That’s some nostril-hair-curling, ER-doctor-barfing-on-the-floor, staph-leaking-from-your-elbow stench.
The worst part is that if you lie in your shit for even a second longer than you should, you’ll never get the smell off. And when you smell like a shit bed, nobody wants to be your friend. Nobody wants to give you any money.
I’ve worn Success No. 5, and I’ve worn Eau de Shit. I ain’t ashamed. Maybe in my darkest night, I gave up on the sheets and the boots and the club-quality drugs, but I’ve always understood myself to be a great worker – a great talker, a great salesman.
That’s why I always knew, in spite of all that shit smell on me and the fact that I had most certainly been blackballed from wrestling, that one day I’d make a comeback. Someone would need the magic that only Killer Ace Black can bring.
Did I think I’d be waiting 30 years? No. Did I think I’d be leaving my place in Tampa, the hub of the business, and taking three flights – including a final leg in a 12-seater that must’ve been as old as me – to come up to some mountain town an hour off the highway to make my glorious return? No.
Did I think I could still be a world-class pseudo-athlete at 60? Did I think I could make a difference for a small company? Did I think I could turn one favor into the fortune I should’ve made a long time ago? You bet your ass I did.
Chapter 2 of How To Ace Your Comeback
I was a junior in high school and the biggest goddamn mark in central Florida when Bobby Shane died, so I’ve never believed that wrestlers belonged on small planes. Timber Regional was the kind of airport you could only get to in a small plane, though, and it was where the money was, so that’s where I went.
I stepped off the tuna can and walked the width of the terminal and out through security—a strut of about thirty yards. A kid in his late 20s wearing khakis and a tucked-in polo that accentuated his starter gut stood beside the lone baggage carousel. He had a little sign that said, “Killer Ace Black.”
“Goddamn, kid,” I said, snatching the paper away. “Is this your first day?”
“Uhh—”
The kid scratched at the back of his neck and stared down at my cowboy boots like he’d never seen a pair before.
“Never mind, Gopher. Which way’s the car?”
“It’s just across the street. Are you waiting on any bags?”
“You’re in the business?” I asked.
“Uh, the insurance business,” he said, pointing at the insignia on his little polo. “Consider me your security detail for the next 40 hours. And your driver.”
“Goddamn, sounds like a hell of a service.”
“So, no bags?” he asked.
“Lesson One: No checked bags. Got the clothes in the duffel and the hat in the case.” He reached to take my old Stetson, but I slapped his dumbass hand away. “Lesson Two’s at the nearest full-service convenience store.”
The Gopher drove me past three redneck filling stations before we stopped at a modern brand-name joint that was all bright plastic and “No Loitering – Police Take Notice” signs.
First on the list was a plain cooler, then two three-pound bags of ice, two six-packs of American cheap-and-nasty, two pre-made sandwiches (one egg salad, one tuna), and a small bottle of orange juice for breakfast.
For dry goods, I grabbed two cans of tuna and a box of saltine crackers along with a dusty PowerBar and four individually wrapped cigars.
“You got any mayo packets?” I asked the cashier as I checked out. He gestured to a bin like I should’ve known.
“Thank you kindly.”
“Do I know you?” he asked, as I grabbed as many packets as I could fit in one fist. “You look familiar.”
“Naw, I said, over my shoulder. I just got one of those faces.”
As I pushed open the door, I noticed the posters expertly taped to either side of it: “TWIN STATE CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING!” One of those faces was right in the middle of it.
“That’s quite a haul,” said the Gopher.
“I’m dropping redneck hotel wisdom for days. Come sit under the learning tree.”
“Oh, you’re not in the redneck hotel anymore,” he explained, turning over the engine and pulling away from the store. “You’ve been upgraded to the Timber Inn, right downtown.”
“I like the sound of that. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, you know,” he said, looking at me a little sideways, “with the threats and everything the company thought it would be better.”
“Threats?” I asked. “Louie must have the place fired up again if he’s got fans threatening heels.”
“I’m surprised you came, if I’m honest,” the Gopher said. “I don’t pretend to understand this whole wrestling thing, but I can tell you that I would not be coming into the office if someone was promising to kill me.”
My mouth went dry, and I heard myself repeating the words, “Promising to kill me?”
“Jesus Christ, they didn’t tell you?”
Chapter 3 of How To Ace Your Comeback
Once I was checked into my hotel, the Gopher showed me photocopies of six different letters that had been mailed to Twin State Championship Wrestling over the last four weeks. Each of them said something like:
Dear Twin State Championship Wrestling,
It has come to our attention that you intend to have Killer Ace Black wrestle on your next arena show, with the match to be recorded for release online. Promoting him in any way will have disastrous consequences.
From the second Mr. Black arrives in this state, he is a danger to every innocent bystander breathing the same air. It would be a shame for you to bring that danger to our town and your business.
If Killer Ace Black arrives in your coliseum, you will be putting your fans, your promotional effort, and your wrestlers in harm’s way. Most importantly, by sending him to the ring, you will be ushering Mr. Black to the slaughter.
Yadda yadda yadda and a bunch of other cowardly shit.
Yours most sincerely,
The Ruinator
“Who still writes a letter?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.”
“You really are new. Give me your phone.”
How to Ace Your Comeback debuts in print and digital format on April 7 via Mouse House Books. To preorder your copy, visit mousehousebooks.com. To learn more, be sure to follow author David Gibb on Twitter at @DaveWritesJunk.
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